perspective. Close-up, long view, looking down from above.
“His name is Brother Francis,” Rheinhardt continued. “A Capuchin monk. His body was discovered by one of his confreres, Brother Ignaz, in the crypt of the Kapuzinerkirche. In Salieri's scheme, his corresponding character in The Magic Flute must be one of the many priests.”
“Or the Speaker of the Temple, perhaps-who is a kind of high priest.”
“Indeed. Professor Mathias ascribed the cause of death to loss of blood, resulting from a sabre wound.”
“The same sabre?”
“That, he couldn't say.” Rheinhardt shifted in his chair and leaned closer to Liebermann. “When I descended into the crypt, several monks had stationed themselves by the body and were reciting offices for the dead. Naturally, I assumed that Brother Francis was no longer with us. But I was very wrong.”
“He was still alive!”
“Yes. The poor fellow had certainly arrived at death's door, but he was yet to step over the threshold. He managed a few desperate gasps, and seemed to regain consciousness. I immediately asked him who had performed the dastardly deed. His reply was… intriguing. He said, ‘A cellist.’ Then he passed away.”
Liebermann examined a close-up photograph of the dead monk's face. A hooked nose projected out from between two sunken eyes.
“Extraordinary,” said Liebermann, working down to the last of the shots. It showed the royal tomb, emerging out of the darkness like a galleon crewed by ghosts. “The crypt was not desecrated with symbols?”
“No.”
“Professor Mathias did not discover any objects concealed in the Capuchin's corpse?”
“No.”
“And no mutilations?” Liebermann tapped the pile of photographs.
“Salieri was disturbed by the arrival of Brother Ignaz. I imagine that he did not have time.”
“Which would also explain why he did not deliver an efficient sabre blow.”
“Indeed, he must have been distracted at the key moment.”
“ ‘A cellist.’ ” Liebermann rotated his glass. The rainbows broke and re-formed. “What are we to make of that? Salieri couldn't have been sitting in the crypt, playing a Bach sonata. So, did Brother Francis recognize him? Is he an artist of some renown? A virtuoso? Or perhaps some rank-and-file orchestral player who participated in a recent religious concert?”
“All are possible.” Rheinhardt smiled grimly. “And are we to suppose that in styling the murderer ‘Salieri’ our choice of name was more apposite than we could possibly have imagined?”
“I believe that the real Salieri studied the harpsichord and violin rather than the cello. Whatever, the evidence gathered so far certainly suggests that our quarry is a musician.”
“Aschenbrandt?”
“He is the only musician to be counted among your suspects-and he is also a cellist. I saw the instrument leaning against the wall when I visited his apartment.”
“Yes. Aschenbrandt-could he be the killer? I read your report with great interest. But I found it rather… perplexing.”
“Oh? Why?”
“You draw several conclusions, Max-but were they really merited by that interview? I take it that your transcript is faithful and nothing more was said?”
“That is correct.”
“Perhaps my memory is at fault, but was it not the case that you talked to him about a single topic only? That is to say, music.”
“What did you expect me to do? Raise the subject of murder?”
“Well… under the circumstances…”
“Oskar, what is the point of such questions? People lie, misdirect, and make up alibis that are subsequently confirmed by confederates. I am interested only in the truths that people reveal about themselves inadvertently: a raised eyebrow, a hesitation, a slip of the tongue- subtle reactions. These are far more valuable. They are authentic communications, emanating from the unconscious. Had I mentioned murder, it would almost certainly have put Aschenbrandt on his guard.”
Liebermann lit another cigar.
“Aschenbrandt,” he continued, “is definitely a disturbed young man. An anti-Semite who entertains semi- delusional beliefs about a Teutonic Messiah whose destiny it is to save the German-speaking peoples. It is possible that he has surrendered himself to this potent mythos, and it has now taken hold of his mind like a possessing demon. He may even see himself as ‘the Invincible’ of his string quintetwhose mission it is to rid Vienna of enemy nomads, Slavs, Negroes, and even, perhaps, representatives of the old order-a corrupt Catholic Church. But as to whether he is Salieri… Well, I have my doubts. When we were discussing The Magic Flute, Aschenbrandt seemed unperturbed. The Magic Flute is Salieri's organizing principle-the channel through which he expresses all his hate and violence. If Aschenbrandt is Salieri, there should have been more signs. He was angry, of course-angry about being interrupted, angry that I called Wagner's music bombastic-and he found my delight in Mozart extremely irritating. But at no time did discussion of The Magic Flute produce a discernible change in his demeanor. He seemed quite comfortable debating a subject that should have stirred up the most powerful emotions; emotions that he should have struggled to conceal.”
“That's all very well, Max,” said Rheinhardt.” But I am still minded to launch a full investigation into Aschenbrandt's musical activities. If we discover that he has participated in any chamber concerts in the Kapuzinerkirche, or any other church for that matter
…”
“Of course,” said Liebermann, “I offer you only an opinion-and Salieri might be such an exceptional creature that his mental processes might not even obey the laws of psychoanalysis.” He knocked the ash from his cigar. “Now, tell me, what of the other suspects?”
“I went to see the artist, Olbricht. What a peculiar fellow.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Something about his expression.”
“I do hope you are not going to invoke Lombroso again. Once and for all, Oskar, there is no relationship between a man's appearance and his nature.”
“Yes, you're quite right. Curiously enough, Olbricht is something of a war hero. He saved his commanding officer's life in the Bosnia-Herzegovina campaign of 1878. And-for a military man-he was rather reticent about the whole affair. He invited me to the opening of his next exhibition. It's at the Hildebrandt Gallery-on Karntner Strasse. Other members of the Eddic Literary Association are bound to be there. Would you be interested in coming along?”
“Very much so.”
“Excellent.”
“And what of Lieutenant Hefner?”
Rheinhardt's features contracted into a small circle of disgust. “Haussmann spent some time in Cafe Haynau, a sordid little place much frequented by military men. It is also a hotbed of gossip. Hefner is rumored to have killed more than a dozen men in duels-probably an exaggeration, but if it proves true, it wouldn't surprise me. His name was recently linked with that of Lemberg, the industrialist's son. The young man is supposed to have died after sustaining a fatal wound in a shooting accident.”
Liebermann sank lower down in his chair. “It seems that killing is Hefner's sport.”
“And they say he is a stranger to fear. Always keeps his nervealways the second to shoot in a barrier duel.”
“Cold, calculating… and arrogant?”
“Insufferably.”
“There is a professor in Berlin who has described a certain pathological ‘type,’ characterized by blunting of the emotions, self-obsession, and lack of conscience. He attributes this syndrome to a disease process affecting the frontal lobes of the brain.”
Both men stared into the flames. The gas lamps hummed harmoniously on a major third.
“The thing is,” said Rheinhardt, not wishing to be drawn into a technical discussion on an arcane branch of
